


bookshelves

by followsrabbit



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 13:12:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14473458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followsrabbit/pseuds/followsrabbit
Summary: Guys like Charles Munier weren’t supposed to frame their beds with bookshelves.(Post 2x03)





	bookshelves

Manon should have been asleep.

To be fair, Manon should have been a lot of things, most currently: not curled up in Charles Munier’s offensively comfortable bed, spending the night in his infuriatingly luxurious apartment. No teenager, who lived  _alone_ , was supposed to have an apartment like this, especially given his affront of a car—

(And she really shouldn’t have been dwelling on Charles’s parents letting him live alone, choosing to let him go, never mind thinking about  _her_  parents and how little resistance they’d put up when she'd decided to move out, don’t go there, don’t go there, don’t connect—)

Asleep. Manon should have been asleep. Except, the lights were still on, and she’d never been able to fall asleep all that easily. And it was driving her a bit stir crazy to keep up the pretense.

So she let her eyes wander open. Charles couldn’t see her face, he didn’t have to know that she was scanning what she could see of his bedroom. The cream wall facing her, the darker print hanging on it, the filled bookshelves.

Or he wouldn’t have, if she hadn't gone and opened her mouth. “The books,” Manon broke their quiet, “are those part of your _technique_ too?” She tried to keep her voice teasing, because anything more earnest would lead to—dangerous territory.

“Oh, of course,” Charles said, without missing a beat. Not a note of sleep in his voice. “ _The Collected Works of Cicero_ is a real aphrodisiac.”

(More dangerous territory.)

“It’s very clever,” she kept going, because, no, she wasn’t going to stop and wonder if that was a random choice or a favorite. She refused to wonder anything about him. “The guitar, the bedroom library… What a sensitive guy.”         

Guys like Charles Munier weren’t supposed to frame their beds with bookshelves. She almost wished she were staring at stacks of lewd, pornographic magazines, anything that would stop this  _smile_ from unfolding on her lips, this uncomfortable warmth from unspooling in her stomach. Not thick paperbacks crammed against each other, one after the other after the other, spines creased from use.

“Manon.”

She shouldn’t have followed his voice, turning over to look at him. Except she  _was_ facing him suddenly, movement and mind totally disconnected. He was facing her too. Lying there on his side, staring into her, like he had been for a while. For who knew how long.

“I don’t use books as a  _technique_ ,” he said.

A swallow; a look of mock skepticism. “Right.”

Heat in her cheeks, despite her best efforts to banish it. Manon had just assumed they’d both fall asleep facing the walls, hadn’t really thought that Charles would spend the night looking at the back of her head. That he’d want to, even though she should have known better. Charles always seemed to be looking at her. Aware of her. She just didn’t understand  _why_.

An amused breath from him now. “But if I did,” he said, “would it be working on you?”

Manon shook her head. “No Simone de Beauvoir?” she clucked. “Or Margaret Atwood? Oh, Charles-Henri.”

“Are you sure about that? Have you looked through every book?”

“Enough of them,” she said. Good. That was a good reply. Distant—

—even though  _distance_  was a laughable concept when they were lying feet apart, in bed together, him half-naked ( _mostly_  naked), only a pillow separating them.

Don’t stare at the span of smooth, bare skin visible above the sheets. His toned, naked chest. Don’t let her smirk trip over the unshakable train of his gaze. Boring into her, like he wanted to fix her there, on the side of his bed that she’d claimed, with his eyes alone. Don’t fall into those eyes, don’t, don’t, don’t—

“You’ll have to take a better look after breakfast tomorrow,” Charles said.

An easier breath. She knew her lines again. “I’m not staying for breakfast.”

Charles raised both eyebrows.

Manon bit the inside of her cheek. She supposed she really couldn’t blame him now, for doubting her sincerity about wanting to stay away. God, it was going to take so much effort to rebuild the walls that tonight had weakened between them. The ones she’d lowered. The ones made of sterner, harder materials than pillows—aloofness, dislike, overstated disgust.

“Not even for  _The Collected Works of Cicero_?” he said.

“Shocking. I know.”

His lips pressed together like there was something else he wanted to say—something he wouldn’t say, maybe, because it would risk ruining the tentative peace they’d struck. She wasn’t pushing him away, and he wasn’t pressuring her to go out with him: this was the unspoken deal.

“What do you like reading?” she asked. “Really.”

Of course—he didn’t have to pressure her to go out with him, since she was already here. Since she’d spent the night drinking hot cocoa with him, getting to know him. Everything he’d planned for their utterly offensive, blackmail-won date the week before.

Charles shrugged into his pillow. “I like history. Really.”

Manon squinted at him.

“You don’t believe me?” he asked.

“I’ve never seen you with a book,” Manon said. Shrugged, then froze when she realized she’d mirrored him.

And then he smiled, and, oh no, she’d said the wrong thing, given him too much of an opening—“If you want to see more of me, Manon,” he said, voice low, “all you have to do is ask.”

The breath in her mouth felt too thick. Too much. Not enough. 

She’d have said,  _I don’t_ , except here she was. The denial wouldn’t sound convincing, even to her, until they were back at school and she’d scrubbed the scent of his sheets from her skin. The scent of him. Fresh and warm and—

She’d have said,  _Good night_ ,  _Charles-Henri_ , except she’d already said that.

So instead: “I think I’ve already seen enough of you tonight,” Manon joked, with a pointed look at his chest, before turning back to her side.

“I knew you were looking.” Charles’s voice felt so much closer to her ear than she knew it could actually be, since she’d definitely have felt him moving, since they still had that pillow barrier separating them.

Manon reached up above her head, and turned off the light. The better to hide her curving lips.

“It’s convenient that you like me, you know,” Charles said, flicking off his lamp. “Because I like you too.”

Maybe Manon’s lips kept curving. The room had gone dark. She certainly didn’t have to admit it.

 


End file.
